As she pulled the blanket free from the cupboard, a small wooden box fell to the floor with a thud, spewing photographs across the floorboards. Ilse crouched to pick them up and smiled when she saw they were her mother’s photos.
Here was Rüdiger before they married, slim and smart in his Party uniform. And little Johannes in shorts, practising his stiff-armed salute out in the garden.
Ilse held the photograph up to the light.
Dear little Johannes. Ten years her junior, he’d been more like a son than a brother. She thought of how he would snuggle into her bed after bathing, and paused, surprised by the sudden clarity of the memories. She thought of the smell of his damp hair, the scent of his skin. Children always smelt so warm and clean at bedtime.
Johannes had been such an ardent little Nazi. He’d been chomping at the bit to join the Deutsches Jungvolk when he turned ten and was let into the Hitler Youth a year early. She smiled when she thought of him on that first day, standing in his pristine uniform in the centre of the kitchen, his hands on his hips.
Of course, there had been trouble. There always was with Johannes. On one evening march, Johannes had beaten a boy from the town with a horsewhip. No-one knew exactly what had happened, but the boy had been left blind in one eye. And two of the youngest members of his Hitler Youth group had returned from a weekend camping trip with pneumonia. They said Johannes had made them stand in the chest-deep waters of a stream for nearly an hour as a punishment.
Johannes was the only one of her relatives Ilse had mentioned on the Fragebogen questionnaire. It was Question 101: Have you any relatives who have held office, rank or post of authority in any of the Nazi organisations listed above?
What should she have put? Cousin Ursula had three relatives who matched the criteria, but the link between Cousin Ursula and Rüdiger was Ilse. What was the point of pretending to be someone else if she was only going to draw the Tommies’ attention to that?
To put nothing, though, had seemed like tempting fate. Better to give them something to look into, to draw their attention. So she’d put Johannes’s name down, and listed his full career. Deutsches Jungvolk and Hitler Youth, then, later, full membership of the NSDAP and enlistment in the 3rd Division of the Waffen SS, the Totenkopf.
There were more photos, but she put them back into the box and closed it, suddenly wearied by the weight of so many memories. A terrible sensation of solitude welled within her. She had no-one now. Rüdiger was dead, killed by partisans in June of ’44. And she’d heard nothing from Johannes for two years. Ursula was the only relative she had left.
She went upstairs and sat in the chair beside Ursula’s bed, warmed by the whisky. Before she knew it, her head was lolling in time to Ursula’s breathing . . .
It seemed she’d only slept a few minutes, but when she woke silver-white moonlight was filtering through the window. Ilse woke slowly, rubbing her eyes and remembering the sound of a distant boom that had woken her, before she noticed that something was wrong in the room. It took her a moment to understand what it was: the wax and wane of Ursula’s breathing could no longer be heard.
She reached for her cousin’s arm; she screamed when her fingers found flesh that was cold and stiff.
Her first reaction was to run from the room, desperate to wash her hands. What if Ursula had died from some disease? She spent the next ten minutes scrubbing her hands. She felt dirty all over. Then she went back upstairs, hoping against hope that she was wrong and that Ursula wasn’t dead, but, when she stood in the bedroom doorway, she realised there could be no mistaking the horrible twist of Ursula’s lips. No live person’s face looked like that .
Strangely, she felt nothing. She was too tired, she realised. She went and poured herself another tot of whisky. Instantly, practical considerations crowded in to destroy the release that she had hoped the warmth of the liquor would give her. Ursula was dead. What would she do with the body? She couldn’t leave it inside the house: it would rot and smell, and there would be flies. But if she contacted a funeral director – if there was one in the town – the Tommies were bound to come round asking questions. She could lie, say she had no idea who Ursula was, but it would attract suspicion.
No, she would have to bury Ursula herself. There was no alternative.
When she returned to the bedroom her cousin’s legs were already stiff, but her arms flapped heavily like stockings packed with sand as Ilse dragged her down the staircase, bumping Ursula’s head against the steep steps as she went.
It was cold outside and the birch trees shone silver in the moonlight. She dragged Ursula’s body to a patch of ground twenty yards from the house. Then Ilse took a spade from the garden shed and began to dig.
15
WHEN THE MUFFLED explosion sounded in the dead of night, Silas Payne awoke instantly.
He lay there, staring into the darkness, wondering whether he’d dreamt the noise rather than heard it. A few minutes later a jeep screeched to a halt in the street outside and someone began knocking at a door across the street. Silas knew that it belonged to the house where an infantry lieutenant was billeted. Running feet sounded on the cobblestones and men’s voices began shouting.
Something was wrong.
Payne looked at his watch as he dressed: 03:50.
He reached for one of his civilian suits, but quickly decided his CCG uniform would be more appropriate. Outside, he asked a soldier what was going on.
‘We think a mine’s gone off in that stretch of field out by the canal.’
‘Do you mean it went off alone? Or that someone set it off?’
‘No idea.’
When the young lieutenant emerged from the house opposite, Payne asked if he could accompany him.
‘I don’t know about that, Detective Inspector. This is a military matter.’
‘Not if it’s a civilian in the minefield. Then it’s my business, too.’
That seemed to throw the lieutenant. Or perhaps it was simply too complex a problem for such an early hour. He waved assent that Payne might accompany him.
They climbed into the lieutenant’s jeep and drove through the ruined ramparts of the town’s gates and out into the countryside. Mist rose from the fields and the moon rode high and full, lining the clouds with silver light.
‘What’s the situation, sergeant?’ the lieutenant said, after they had crossed the Bailey bridge that led over the canal and pulled off the road.
The sergeant nodded towards a nearby fence. ‘There was someone out there in the minefield, sir.’
‘Do you know who it was?’
‘No idea, sir. When we heard the explosion, we came running straight away. Then we fancied we heard someone crying and calling for help. Lucky for us we realised where we were, else one of the lads might have hopped the fence and gone to find the poor sod.’
‘And you definitely heard someone cry out?’
‘Yes, sir. We think he’s still alive.’
‘Is that possible if he’s stepped on a mine?’ Payne said.
The lieutenant nodded. ‘Depends what he stepped on. The Jerries used to rig some mines to maim rather than kill.’
He was going to elaborate when the wind shifted slightly and the sound of a low moan was carried on the breeze.
Each man there froze momentarily. Then they concentrated their torches on the darkness, trying to locate the source of the sound. Now they could hear a man’s voice, calling out for help. He was speaking in English.
‘For God’s sake, man, it’s away there, over to the right,’ the lieutenant said as a private stood on the lowest bar of the fence and shone his torch into the darkness.
‘HELP!’ the voice screamed, louder now and touched with a genuine sense of terror, as if the man had only just become aware of his predicament. The field seemed to be filled with moving shapes as the clouds above scudded across the face of the moon.
‘MY EYES! MY GOD, MY EYES! HELP!’ Hysteria distorted the man’s voice, but that wasn’t what had made the hairs on Payne’s neck stand up. Was it his imagination or did he recognise the voice?
‘Stay still, you stupid bastard,’ a young private said, as sounds of thrashing and other frenzied motions came from the field. One of the privates had a megaphone. ‘Stay still. You are in a minefield. Remain where you are and . . .’
The soldiers were obviously from a fighting unit: when the mine detonated, they all dropped flat to the ground, whereas Payne merely flinched as earth showered around him. The explosion seemed so close it took Payne’s breath away; he felt it like a blow in the pit of his stomach and he heard dirt pitter-patter on the brim of his hat. Then something heavy and organic landed with a wet thud on the bonnet of a jeep. One of the soldiers cursed and Payne caught sight of a dark smear that ran across the front of the vehicle before he looked away.
The engineers waited until daylight before going into the minefield to collect the body.
Once the sun began to rise Payne could see clearly where the explosion had taken place, as there was a circle of scorched earth about 20 yards from the fence. Crows hopped and fluttered in this area, pecking at a dark and ragged shape that lay away to the right of the crater caused by the explosion.
While the engineers edged forward towards the body, Payne walked the edge of the minefield, trying to find where the dead man had entered it. Around a hundred yards from the canal, the ground on the other side of the fence had been churned up, as if someone had been kicking and thrashing their legs. Muddy holes showed where the man had stumbled away from the fence, heading deeper into the minefield.
The engineers had reached the remains and gathered them up and were making their way back with them on a stretcher.
Payne went and stood beside the ambulance. As the engineers carried the stretcher past him, he lifted the tarpaulin that covered it. The lieutenant grabbed his arm and asked him what the hell he was doing, but Payne shook himself free. He had to be sure. He bent closer to the corpse’s head.
The face was smeared with mud and the eye sockets were red and blistered, but there could be no doubt. Payne was right: he had recognised the voice.
The stretcher harboured what was left of Mr Lockwood.
16
CAPTAIN BOOTH WAS drinking tea and considering what to have for breakfast when a jeep screeched to a halt outside his billet and Colonel Bassett’s adjutant, Captain Fredrickson, got out and ran up the steps.
Booth’s nose wrinkled. If Booth merely disliked Colonel Bassett, he actively hated Captain Fredrickson. With his thick black hair, prop-forward’s build and abrasively upper-class accent, Freddy was the sort you just knew had been a bully at school. It was oafs like ‘Freddy’ Fredrickson that would give the occupation a bad name, boorish drunks acting like the overlords of some new European Raj.
Booth’s problems with the man had begun back in Holland. That was when Freddy had still been a lieutenant. He’d been serving under Booth in Field Intelligence. They’d been working as part of the division’s advance guard, engaged in a sweeping-up operation that involved interrogating men and women suspected of being members of the Dutch fascist party who were therefore also suspected of collaboration with the Germans.
A couple of days after some arrests had been made, Booth had collected the detachment’s laundry from a local washerwoman. She was profuse in her apologies: she’d tried everything but she just couldn’t get the red speckles out of Lieutenant Fredrickson’s shirt cuffs. Was it beetroot, perhaps? Or wine?
Booth discovered what it was that same night, when he walked in on Freddy with his pistol rammed into the mouth of a terrified Dutchman. A second man sat crying on the floor, blood pouring from his mouth.
Booth had taken the matter straight to Division and then on to Corps. Nothing was done. Lieutenant Fredrickson had an impeccable record. It was war. Officers in the field had free rein to use whatever tactics they saw fit.
Instead of being punished, Freddy had been promoted to captain and now served on Colonel Bassett’s staff. It was no secret that he had Bassett’s ear and had used his influence on a number of occasions to ensure Booth’s unit was given irksome duties.
Booth stayed in his office, listening to the low rumble of the duty sergeant’s voice in the corridor outside. When he heard Freddy leave, Booth got up and opened the door.
‘What was that about, sergeant?’ he said.
‘It seems there was a bit of a flap early this morning in one of the minefields out by the canal. Someone’s been hurt. Colonel Bassett wants you to meet him at the RAMC barracks right away.’
Booth tossed the remains of his tea away, put his mackintosh on and walked to his jeep, chewing his lip.
He’d planned to go back to Wolffslust today. He’d wasted the whole of yesterday afternoon waiting in vain for the engineers’ detachment to come and blow open the wretched door. When he had got back to Eichenrode in the evening, he’d had strong words with one of the engineers’ NCOs and they’d promised to send someone that morning.
He looked at his watch. With any luck, this business with Colonel Bassett wouldn’t take too long.
The RAMC had occupied the remains of the local hospital. When Booth arrived, he saw Detective Inspector Payne walking down the main staircase deep in thought. Booth thought the man’s usually calm face looked somewhat perturbed.
‘Where’s he off to?’ Booth asked one of the guards outside the hospital, as Payne pulled the collar of his coat up and walked away into the wind.
‘He and Colonel Bassett have had words,’ the guard said. ‘The colonel bawled him out for bothering Quartermaster Sergeant Suttpen. Then, when the Detective Inspector said he wanted to attend the autopsy, the colonel said it was a military matter and turfed him out.’
‘Autopsy? What on earth’s been going on?’
‘I don’t rightly know, sir. But it seems there was some bother in that minefield down by the canal.’
When Booth went downstairs to the tiled corridor that led to the hospital’s morgue, he found Colonel Bassett stalking up and down in front of his staff officers, in serious danger of breaking the swagger stick gripped behind his back. He seemed to have been waiting for Booth’s arrival. As soon as he saw Booth, Bassett began to speak.
‘I’m sure you have all heard what happened this morning in the minefield. If anyone hasn’t, I can tell you that one of our men has been killed. But before we look into it, there’s something that I want to make abundantly clear.
‘When I arrived this morning, that wretched Scotland Yard fellow was here. I’ve previously held my tongue on this matter, but now I want to spell it out for you all. I don’t like policemen. Never have. And I don’t want this Payne fellow snooping around in army business any longer, is that perfectly clear? And I don’t want a word of today’s casualty getting out, understood?’
Bassett regarded each man in turn as Captain Fredrickson whispered something in his ear.
‘Thanks to Captain Fredrickson, we know who the dead man was. It seems he worked for Housing Branch, a Mr Lockwood. Now, this just proves why we have to keep an eye on these CCG people. It seems any Tom, Dick or Harry can get a CCG job as long as he’s got a passport from an Allied country and is willing to work, but they’re not proper soldiers, remember that.’ Bassett turned towards Fredrickson. ‘What do we know about this Lockwood fellow? Was he a drinker?’
‘Not that we know of, sir,’ Freddy said.
‘Then what the hell was he doing wandering through a bloody minefield in the middle of the night? And why on earth wouldn’t the blighter stay still and wait for someone to rescue him? I want answers, gentlemen. This sort of business makes us look damned stupid in front of Jerry and that is something I won’t have. Do I make myself –’
The door to the morgue opened. Shelley, the medical off
icer, appeared.
‘I think you’d better come and have a look at this, gentlemen.’
Mr Lockwood lay under a blanket, although Booth noticed there was a huge dip where the man’s waist should have been and his left leg was missing. Shelley angled the lamp towards Lockwood’s face then pulled a corner of the blanket back.
Men winced and drew their breath.
‘What the devil’s wrong with his eyes?’ Bassett said.
‘That’s what I wanted to show you,’ Shelley said.
They moved closer. Lockwood’s eyes were closed but the sockets around them were red raw and blistered, as if they had been burnt, although there was no sign of charring. The wounds had an unpleasant yellowy colour to them. Shelley motioned towards a metal tray on which a piece of black fabric lay, rolled up and tied into a ring.
‘That was found on the ground near the body. It was blown free in the blast, I would imagine.’
‘Blown free from where?’ Bassett said.
‘From his eyes. I think Mr Lockwood went into the minefield blindfolded.’
‘You mean someone tied that around his head then set him loose in a minefield?’
Shelley nodded. He lifted the tray and pointed towards two blotches of discoloured cloth on the inner surface of the blindfold. ‘And that same someone also poured some type of caustic powder into his eyes. I think that explains why he wouldn’t stay still. The pain must have been excruciating.
‘I’ve questioned the engineer detachment and they’ve found a line of muddy footprints crossing the field. My guess is that Mr Lockwood was set free and stumbled into the centre of the minefield. The first explosion must have injured him without killing him. He then lay stunned for a while. But when he came to again, the pain would have caused him to start moving. I think he crawled across the second mine.’
‘Why didn’t he just pull the wretched blindfold off?’ Bassett said.
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